


Between Duty and Love

by Velocity_Owl87



Series: Loup!Verse [3]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Politics, M/M, Torture, Violence, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-14
Updated: 2011-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-26 01:49:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/277268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Velocity_Owl87/pseuds/Velocity_Owl87
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a duty has been so ingrained, how much can be sacrificed to fulfill it? That's the question that Jonathan Toews has to ask when he's faced with a decision he never thought he would have to make in regards to Patrick Kane. So how does he choose?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between Duty and Love

_“And is it worth the wait?_

 _All this killing time?_

 _Are you strong enough to stand?_

 _Protecting both your heart and mine?”-Florence +The Machine_

 _Western Lands, Winter Solstice, 2011_

 _The Western Enclave_

“Jonathan!! Please! Jonathan!! Come on man! Please! _Don’t let them kill me! Please!_ _TAZER!!_ ”

Jonathan stared fixedly at the Alpha’s desk, not raising his gaze from the bundles of scattered paper work even though Kan-Patrick Kane was screaming bloody murder as he was being dragged off to the cages in the basement. Even though each of his screams was like a knife through his soul, he didn’t dare look at the man that had been the closest he could have ever gotten to a soul mate. On and off the ice, they complimented each other perfectly.

But Kan- _Patrick Kane_ had crossed the line and that was something that Jonathan wasn’t sure he would ever be able to forgive. And yes, it was cold and it was cruel and he knew Ka- _Patrick Kane_ was always pushing the envelope...but this time it was for keeps. There was no way that they could go back to being the way that it was before.

This wasn’t the same as getting drunk and slapping a cabdriver around. Or using the Stanley cup to get blowjobs. No. This was serious, because if the wrong mainstreamers found out about the secret society that existed alongside theirs, it would be curtains not just for the Toews family, but for so many others. And Jonathan would be damned if he was going to be responsible for the mass extinction of his species.

Even if it meant for his own happiness to be crushed forever.

The screams kept on going for what seemed like hours. Even though the thick doors and walls, the screams and pleas were quite clear and all of them were along the same lines: for Jonathan to save him from what was going to be a horrific and sure death.

Jonathan listened to it all as he then sat down at the desk and started reading all of the documents and arranging them. But still, he couldn’t bring himself to raise a hand to do anything for Patrick. Too many lines had been crossed already. He had his people’s lives to think about.

This was the mantra that he kept on repeating to himself over and over again until the door of the office was opened. He reflexively looked up and tried hard to not show any expression when Patrick Sharp and his mate came into the office. He loved Sharpie, when it was all said and done. But he wasn’t that crazy over his mate now that the succession was going to be put in question.

Realistically, Jonathan had known that factions would always come up whenever a succession was discussed. He wasn’t so naive as to think that wasn’t going to happen in the West. Even though the discussion of the heirs was more of a theory rather than a fact, since the triumvirate of the West could still produce a son to take over once the Alpha was vanquished or died.

It would have been different if Sharpie had mated with someone else. No one would have put him forth as a potential candidate and Jonathan could have rested easier knowing he was the heir apparent and concentrated on other things. Like his human life and hockey. But now that Sharpie was mated to Jonathan Roy, the offspring of the so called “Kingmaker”, things were now a bit more difficult.

Not to mention the added burden of the no-man’s land pack in the Midwestern states being stirred up by the potential threat of discovery. All of the packs were paranoid about discovery. But the Midwestern packs were even more so due to the near genocide they experienced during the Manifest Destiny years of the U.S. expansion. They had never fully recovered from the slaughter and as it was, they guarded their secrets and their territories with a stealth and jealousy that would put even the secretive French packs to shame.

And now, the West and the Midwest packs were teetering on the edge of war all because of Patrick Kane being his idiotic self and stumbling in on their territory and Jonathan’s secret all in one fell swoop.

(When he thought about it, Jonathan nearly gave himself a headache. He had just mentioned three unrelated Patricks and there was another Jonathan besides him. It was at that moment that he wished people would be more original when naming their children. It was a logistical nightmare.)

“He’s asking for you.” Sharpie told Jonathan as he and Roy’s son stopped in front of the desk.

Jonathan only glared at him in return, telling Sharpie to drop the matter with just a gold-eyed look. But Sharpie only snorted and shook his head.

“You’re making a big mistake, letting them do that to him.” Sharpie commented softly. Roy’s son simply stood there, staring at him with a face that was so blank it was almost eerie. Jonathan appreciated the silence, but it was still pretty damned creepy how still Sharpie’s Mate could be.

“He was stupid enough to not listen when he was told he shouldn’t wander around in Minnesota. He has to be responsible for his actions.” Jonathan returned crisply.

Sharpie’s Mate shook his head in disagreement, but said nothing. Sharpie looked at his mate and snorted contemptuously at his captain.

“This isn’t the way to go for the succession, Tazer. He’s a moron, but he’s still our friend.”

Jonathan’s hands tightened around a manila folder so tightly that his knuckles turned white and the paper was in danger of being shredded. Sharpie noticed it, but he didn’t say anything. He had proven his point and all three _loups_ knew it.

“Don’t play that card, Sharp.” Jonathan snarled at him, his eyes bleeding even more colour as he spoke.

“One of us has to.” Sharpie ground out. “You’re making a stupid choice based on your pride and I’m not going to stand quietly and let you.”

Jonathan took a deep breath and dropped the folder. “He nearly got us discovered. We’re teetering on the edge of a war not even a year after the last one. He knows what not just I, but you and your mate _are._ You’re born _loup_. You know how hard it is to keep _them_ from finding out about us.”

Sharpie’s expression softened a fraction once Jonathan was done with his impassioned outburst.

“I know. We all know. But there is another way out. You know it and I know it. Why is it so hard for you to accept it?”

Jonathan sighed, bit his lip and shook his head.

“I can’t do it.” Jonathan replied softly. He looked up at Sharpie and hated the compassion that he could see in his alternative captain and friend’s face.

“Don’t look at me that way. _Just don’t.”_  The way he says it could be either a plea or a soft order. Neither of them knows and Roy isn’t about to step into the conversation.

“There are others that have done it, you know.” Sharpie reminded him quietly. This time, he does fully look at Roy, who gives him a half-smile in acknowledgement before he looks away.

Jonathan shakes his head violently.

“It wouldn’t work with him and you know it. He’s still like a little kid and always will be, in both the good and the bad. I don’t think...no. I _know_ that there wouldn’t be anyone else. He needs _everything_ that a person has to give. Where would that leave someone else?”

“Don’t you think you’re being too hard on him?” Roy finally spoke up, his voice cool and composed as he spoke. “Or are you simply making excuses to justify your decision?”

Jonathan scowled at Roy. “You only see what he lets you see. You’ve not been the one staying up with him. Or making sure that he’s healthy or listening to everything he’s got to say even though you really want to strangle him and go to sleep. I have and I know I can’t do it for the rest of our lives.”

Roy only stared back calmly, not in the least perturbed by the other Jonathan’s outburst.

“So you’ll sacrifice him for political expedience and your own selfishness instead.”

Jonathan forgot himself and took a step forward, his narrow face flushing with anger at the painfully sore point that Roy had just scored. To his surprise, Roy simply reached out and grabbed his wrist, squeezing so tightly that it took all of his self-possession to not cry out or wince.

“I’ll let it pass this once, since both of us know all’s fair in love and war here. But don’t forget yourself in the future and don’t ever justify such a horrific act under political expedience. That is the main reason why Sharpie was put forth in the succession, if you must know.” Roy hissed at him before shoving him away so forcefully that he nearly lost his footing.

Jonathan’s mouth fell open at the news and Roy nodded a grimly satisfied smirk on his face as the fact finally registered with Jonathan.

Sharpie looked pained, but he didn’t apologize nor did he rebuke Roy. He simply looked at Jonathan and inclined his head.

“I don’t fucking believe it.” Jonathan whispered once he had finally worked out all of the implications of the succession and the choices.

“Believe it. You know how they operate. They aren’t given to whims or pettiness. And to tell you the truth, I don’t even want to be the heir. My family is neutral and I plan to keep our neutrality. But if there’s no good leader put forth. I _will_ fulfill my duty.”

Sharpie’s words were like blows to Jonathan’s pride and belief system.  All those years of being groomed, of taking up _duty_ over emotion...all that his family had instilled in him in preparation for this day...all of it was worthless. All of it...if only...what else could...

“You know the deadline. You know what has to be done. It’s up to you and don’t make the decision with your head. That’s the only advice I can give you.”

Jonathan looked up in time to see Roy flash him a look of sympathy before he and Sharpie exited the office, leaving him alone to wrestle with the most painful decision of his life.

“Dammit Kaner! Dammit! Why the hell do you _always do this?!”_

But Kaner couldn’t give him the answer, because Jonathan wasn’t sure he could handle asking the question.

~*~**~*~*~

 _“Who is the betrayer?_

 _Who’s the killer in the crowd?_

 _The one that creeps in corridors_

 _And doesn’t make a sound.” Florence +The Machine_

Patrick Kane shuddered and huddled closer into himself when _they_ threw him into a cell that contained nothing more than a metal toilet, sink and a thin mattress and thick, coarse blanket for sleeping. There was a small window, high up on the wall, but it had thick metal bars running across it.

He noticed all of this dully and tried to not flinch when _they_ locked the cage shut and then when they wove a thick linked chain around the lock and padlocked _that_. There was no way he was going to get out of this. Even if he knew how to pick a lock (which would have been something he should have added to his skills repertoire, since with three sisters he always had a steady supply of bobby pins lying around handy) there was simply no way that he was going to get past _them._ One of them would be enough to take him down. He was sure of it. He thinks that three that took him down was to show him how fucked he was and that they were following orders. Whose, he doesn’t know.

When that occurred to him, he felt as if he had just swallowed a block of ice and was now sitting heavily in the pit of his stomach. It chilled him so badly that it physically and emotionally hurt more than all the injuries they’ve inflicted on him. It’s so bad that he hunched over and wrapped his arms around his middle. He felt like he was going to simultaneously break apart and throw up at the same time.

He also felt like he was going to cry and if he started crying, he knew he was not going to stop.

At that exact moment that the thought crossed his mind, his nose started bleeding again. He sniffed and winced as the pain made itself known again. He wasn’t sure if they broke it or not. All he knew that his face was starting to throb again and would probably give him a headache soon.

He closed his eyes and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes to ease the pressure in his skull. It eased the pain somewhat, but it also made him remember the way that Tazer had looked at him when they had literally thrown him at his captain and best friend’s feet.

Tazer (no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop calling him by his nickname) No matter what was going to happen, Jonathan Toews would always be “Tazer” to Patrick. He just didn’t have the strength or the coldness in him to divorce himself so fully from a person that he had shared most of his life’s milestones with. He wasn’t like that. It took a lot for him to walk away from someone and even though it was crystal clear he should have been doing that at least five hours earlier...he didn’t have the heart to do it.

Maybe it was him being stupid. Or it was him having a half-baked idea that things, despite looking pretty fucking grim, where going to eventually work out somehow. Or maybe it was just the blind faith he had in Tazer that wouldn’t let him give up hope that his friend would change his mind.

Yes, he had fucked up. But it wasn’t like it had been all those other times he had fucked up. He hadn’t been playing with fire. He had actually been doing the right thing, for fuck’s sake. And he was going to lose his life and his best friend. Patrick couldn’t understand it.

“Fuck.” He whispered as he pulled his hands away from his face and wiped at his nose, careful to not aggravate it further. At least the throbbing had eased up and he didn’t have that to deal with anymore.

“ _Thank God for small blessings,”_ he thought to himself as he wiped his hand on his jeans. They had stripped him of the rest of his gear before throwing him in the cell, leaving him only in jeans and a thermal shirt. Even his boots were gone. They had made sure that he was going to be utterly helpless and completely at their mercy.

Patrick had just pulled his hands away from his jeans when the chain started clanking against the bars of his cell. His mouth went completely dry when he saw the ones that had brought him to the cells fiddling with the locks while a third one stood at the back waiting patiently. Patrick shivered again and instinctively tried to make himself smaller by backing away rapidly and pressing his back against the far wall of the cell, right in the corner. Even though he was more or less trapped, he would have much rather have the corner at his back while waiting for them to come at him.

Although he couldn’t squash that instinct, he was able to not be shaking in fear once they got the chain and locks off. He had been dreading that exact moment, wincing slightly whenever they had clanked the chain or the keys against the bars. He had hoped that the locks would have gotten stuck, or the key broken in the locks, but it was just wishful thinking.

They opened smoothly and to his surprise, the one in the back was the first of _them_ to come in. And when he did, Patrick nearly had his second heart attack of the day right then and there.

“Jesus fucking Christ. Patrick Timothy Kane. Why am I _not_ surprised to find you here? You either have the worst luck in the universe, or simply are the stupidest human being I’ve ever come across.” Ryan Kesler drawled out sarcastically when he stepped into the cell and looked down at Patrick. Once he had finished calling Patrick an idiot, his wide mouth curled up into a sardonic smirk.

Patrick would have scowled at the drawled out question and shot back a few choice remarks or two, but he was too shocked to find out that _Kesler_ of all people was one of _them._ Like Tazer and Sharpie and Jonathan Roy and...How many of them were there? How many of them had he played with, lived with, joked with and not known?

Patrick only blinked up at Kesler, who crossed his arms across his chest as he kept on staring at Patrick. He didn’t know what he could have said there, so he decided that for once, he was going to play it safe and keep his mouth shut. 

Kesler stared at him a few moments before sighing and raking his hands through his hair, making it even messier than its usual state before he spoke.

“I wish this was different, Kane. I really do. But we have laws we have to follow like everyone else. And you fucked up big time and have to pay.” Kesler said, his voice neutral and devoid of any emotion. Patrick swallowed at the statement.

“I didn’t know.” He whispered softly. Kesler’s mouth twisted before he shook his head.

“Jonathan Toews warned you to NOT go. Patrick Sharp and Jonathan Roy did the same thing. Don’t you think that maybe, just maybe there was a _good_ reason for them to discourage you from going?” Kesler asked him quietly.

Patrick opened and closed his mouth, not knowing how to reply. Yeah, he should have paid attention. Yeah, he should have listened to them...but he just didn’t want to be alone in _St. Paul_ , of all places and didn’t see the harm of accepting the invitation. He just never thought it was going to end up like _this._

“I just didn’t think...” Kesler snarled and Patrick’s next words died in his throat.

“We know that. And now someone’s blood is on your hands and you have to pay the price.”

Another voice snarled out, making Patrick’s heart nearly stop at the sheer amount of sorrow, rage and hatred that sentence contained. It was one of the ones that had captured him. The speaker was maybe three years younger than him and probably just outgrowing his awkward phase of being gangly and all legs and arms. His hair was a dark mane that framed a narrow and thin-featured face that reminded him all too well of Tazer.

The speaker came closer to Patrick and sneered down at him. “Get up.”

“Why?” Patrick whispered hoarsely, his throat feeling almost swollen with its dryness. He knew what was coming. But he had hoped that it wasn’t going to happen so soon.

“Payback begins now.”

Patrick closed his eyes and said a small prayer that he (a) would be able to survive this and (b) not embarrass himself when it was all finally over and done.

~*~*~*~

When he regained consciousness, his face hurt and his mouth was filled with the taste of blood. He tried to open his eyes, but only the left one would obey his command. And he only managed to get it just cracked open. He found himself lying on the mattress and he shivered. He was cold and he was barely covered by the blanket, which seemed as if it had been thrown carelessly over him once they had been done with him.

He tried to move, but when his entire body became alive with pain (especially his right shoulder and arm, which made him pray that neither was broken) he decided he could bear the cold. What he couldn’t bear is the regret that started seeping in when the memories came flooding back.

 _Minnesota, Seven hours earlier..._

 _“This isn’t happening. This is so not happening.”_     Patrick Kane kept repeating to himself as he ploughed and scrambled through the deep snowbanks and stripped bushes that painfully snapped across the face whenever he lost his footing.  It hurt more than it should, since his skin was almost cracking with the exposure to the cold. Yeah, he was from Buffalo and thus used to the cold, but Minnesota cold was something else: dry, harsh and relentless.

Patrick’s crouched behind a thick elm, his knees shaking and his breathing ragged gasps that are too loud in the still winter woods. His nose is dripping and he wipes it away quickly with his mittened hand. He nearly cries when he sees the blood. He knows they will smell it and track him down and he’s too fucking scared to even _breathe_ , never mind move to clean it up.

He’s been running for so long that his legs ache and his lungs feel like they’re on fire. Even a hard game can’t make him as tired as he is at that moment. But this is different from a game. Sure, hockey’s important. But he’s not playing for his life.

Right now, he is.

He hears them howl in the distance and he lets out a shuddering breath. He doesn’t want to die in the middle of the woods. He doesn’t want to put his family through hell when they find his body, mangled and torn up beyond recognition. That’s if they find his body. For all he knows, they could just tear him to shreds and then eat him. As if he was another animal that they had hunted and cornered for food.

The idea is so repulsive that he nearly throws up in the snow. As it is, he is already gagging and he has to take a few deep breaths to finally calm his stomach down. Once that’s done, he decides to kneel down and scoop up some of the deep snow and dilute the scent of blood on his face and mitten. He gets most of it off and even manages to spread it around to confuse his scent. He’s as quiet as he possibly can be when he does that, but even that isn’t enough. He knows they’ve got preternatural senses, these ones that are hunting him down. There is no other explanation for them finding him so fast after he had stumbled upon their little gathering.

The eerie way that their eyes glowed still made his knees weak and he was just thankful that he had managed to get away before the rest of them noticed him. He could still see their glowing eyes, as if they had been imprinted in his mind and he swore fervently if he got out of this alive, he would stop drinking and being an idiot and lead a good life and go to church on Sunday and stop thinking about Jonathan’s-

A loud howl broke his thoughts and his mind snapped back to his situation. He needed to get out of there and _alive_ before he was going to be making any promises. He gets his glove back on and winces at the dampness of the fabric. But that won’t last and not for the first time in his life does he thank God that he listened to Jonathan when they were out buying winter gear. Yeah, he may be a Buffalo native, but he has to admit that his city has got nothing on Winnipeg.

Patrick takes a few deep breaths and debates staying there for a few minutes longer or moving. He pulls his damp glove away from his wrist and sends yet another silent prayer out that his watch has a compass and that he bothered to actually learn how to read one in the brief time he was in boy scouts.

He looks to his left, which is utterly dark and waits. That’s the direction he needs to take to get back to town and the hotel. But he’s not going to go there blindly and risk being captured, even though his body is already whimpering at the thought of a hot bath, a comfortable bed and the relief that this entire nightmare is going to be over quickly.

As much as he wants to just take the risk and run, he wants to stay alive more than anything. So he waits. After giving himself five nerve-wracking minutes, Patrick started moving ever so slowly towards the direction where the town was, his steps sounding overly loud in his ears. They were so loud that he had to stop and listen carefully for any predator coming to swoop down on him.

When he had crossed that clearing, he nearly cried in relief. Especially when he could see the dim halo of lights over in the distance.  He just had to keep on pushing to get back to the city and pretend that nothing ever happened. He took a deep breath and scrubbed his face again, ignoring the pain from the scratches on his face. But he doesn’t move. He feels this horrific, nameless dread in the pit of his stomach and it freezes him in the same spot, even though he knows that any wasted time will get him closer to signing his death warrant.

“Okay.Okay.” he mutters really low under his breath in an effort to motivate himself to get out of that mindset. He took a few experimental breaths and when he finally felt ready enough, he started to run as quietly as he could through the forest.

But as luck would have it, he not only tripped over an exposed tree root, he also managed to snap a branch with a sound similar to a shotgun.

Patrick lay there stunned for a few seconds before his instincts kicked in and he stumbled back to his feet and kept on running. He didn’t slow down even when he heard the snarling and howling going on behind him. There was a nasty stitch in his side and his lungs were on fire, but he didn’t slow down nor did he look behind him. He just kept on running towards the buildings and the lights.

He was in a pain-filled haze, but he couldn’t stop running. What stopped him in the end was what felt like a truck slamming into his back and sending him sprawling out into the snow.

For a split second, he welcomed the sure death that was waiting for him. His body hurt so much and the adrenaline that had made it possible for him to get so far was wearing off and leaving that sick down in its wake. He had a close to two hundred pound _werewolf_ on his back and there was no one around to help. He had gone as far as he possibly could have and that was it. He was done.

Patrick Kane closed his eyes and prayed for a quick death.

When he heard the roar of the gun go not once or twice and the weight get off his back, he had believed that his first prayer had been answered.

But when he heard the angry shouts and howls and was dragged to his feet and smacked across the face, Patrick realized that his second prayer was still out there and would probably be answered sooner than expected.

~*~*~*~ _“Will you defeat them? Your Demons, and all the non-believers?_

 _The Plans that they have made?”- My Chemical Romance_   
_  
Eastern Enclave_

Guy Carbonneau rubbed his face and sat back in his chair once he had finished reading the memo that had just been faxed to the Eastern _loup_. He sighed and passed on the paper to Patrick Roy and Pascal LeClaire, who skimmed it quickly before passing it to Jonathan Cheechoo and Ethan Moreau.

“Should we even respond?” Cheechoo asked as he picked up his pen and tapped his yellow legal pad with the end of it.

“It’s between the West and the Midwestern packs. Let them sort it out.” Moreau muttered as he tamped down a stack of paperwork into a neat pile. “We’ve just started to rebuild. We can’t afford to get embroiled into what basically amounts to a grudge debt.”

LeClaire frowned at the memo that is now lying in the middle of table and rubbed his forehead.

“Normally I’d agree. But Sharp has been named a contender in the ascendancy of the West. And my son is his mate. We have ties. We have to send an envoy at least.” Roy commented quietly.

Carbonneau and Cheechoo frowned and look down at the memo. LeClaire and Moreau scowled.

“If we have an envoy during the talks and war breaks out...we are bound by the laws to help.” Cheechoo pointed out quietly. “And I refuse to send any of my people out there to die.”

“He’s right. I don’t mind fighting when I have to. This is between the heir of the West and the Alpha of the Midwest. They have to work it out between them and the rules are clear.” Moreau observed.

“War won’t break out.” LeClaire pointed out calmly, folding his hands underneath his chin and resting it upon them.

Cheechoo cocked his head to the side at the calm pronouncement, while Moreau scowled.

“How can you be so sure? Toews is as hard as they come. He won’t let anyone and anything stand in the way of his plans and if he thinks they are being threatened, he will take swift action.” Moreau commented flatly. Cheechoo’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing as he straightened his head and waited for an answer.

“There’s a reason why the Western Alpha picked him as his successor and I’m sure that reason will make itself clear once push comes to shove.” LeClaire pointed out.

Roy frowned. “But we still have to send an answer and I don’t feel it is worth pissing either side of, even if I am connected by proxy because of the ascendancy and because of my son.”

Everyone in the room chose that moment to find the table very interesting rather than meet Roy’s eyes, since Jonathan’s connections were still something that was under review and dispute. It would have remained a non-issue, since through his father and mate he was an Eastern _loup_ , but through being bitten by Iginla, he also held claim to the Western packs. But the legal issue had arisen since Sharp has been named an heir due to his birthplace and his being mated with a Western claimed _loup._

Otherwise, the Western and European packs would protest and herald another civil war. And war was something that all packs were all too keen to avoid. The last war had culled numbers and the way that the gene propagated itself made any loss of _loups_ be more catastrophic than in other populations. So peace, by all means possible, had been the by-word of all the packs and if that fragile peace was threatened, all stops were pulled out so that the precarious balance was kept intact.

Carbonneau looked at LeClaire. Although LeClaire was taking over more and more of the duties in the court, as was his responsibility, it was a well known fact that Carbonneau usually had the last say in whatever action the court was going to make. LeClaire frowned at Carbonneau before he straightened up in his chair and looked at the rest of the council.

“We’re sending an envoy under the flag of neutrality. We act as advisors and nothing more.”

Roy shrugged and sat back in his chair. “Who’s going to be the envoy?”

“He’s already there. Don’t worry.” LeClaire replied, closing his leather folder and signalling the end of the meeting between the court representatives.

 _European Collective_

Henrik shoved the paper back at Alex, sat back in his chair and started doodling on the pad of legal paper in front of him. He waited for the soft Russian swearing to subside before he looked up. He didn’t get any sort of answer until the paper was shoved back in the middle of the table. Alex’s mouth was pressed in a thin line, but apart from that, he wasn’t showing any strong reaction to the news they had just been sent.

“We send an answer?” Alex asked after they have been sitting there for awhile without a word passing between them. Henrik put his pen down and sighed.

“We have to. There’s no way around it. We either send an envoy under the flag of neutrality as the East has done, or we send a formal letter acknowledging the request and throw our lot with one side or the other. We can’t stay out of it no matter how much we want to. We signed the accords.”

Henrik reminded Alex tiredly. He didn’t blame the Russian for not wanting to get involved. The rest of the European council has unanimously voted to abide by whatever decision they made when the letters were distributed. Even though they had members in the disputing territories, they decided to swallow their pride and let the two of them have the final say in everything.

It should seem like a small conflict, but with everyone watching the outcome, no one wanted to directly be involved when it all came to pass. Everyone knew the choice made would reflect on the West and also on future dealings with the humans around the _loups_ in the area.

Alex growled, but he nodded his understanding. “The Western heir or Kesler then?”

Henrik rubbed his eyes and sighed at the question. “We do not even know for certain who the Western heir _is._ If we did, it would make this easier.”

Alex hissed his displeasure. “Who else is in the running?”

“Patrick Sharp and Jonathan Roy. It is not officially stated as such. But everyone understands how it will be.”

Alex nodded and didn’t respond right away. He let his nails grow a bit before he started to tap them on the pad of paper covered in Henrik’s scrawls, leaving dents as he did.

“Toews seem like the best pick now.” Alex murmured thoughtfully.

Henrik shook his head. “He is too hard. Everyone is thinking he will make the sacrifice.”

Alex’s mouth dropped open and he looked at Henrik in shock. “He has to. No choice.”

Henrik smiled thinly. “Everyone has a choice and Toews will make the wrong one because he cannot think of anything else but his ambition. No one will trust someone so brutal.”

“And if we choose Kesler?” Alex tried.

Henrik folded his hands as if he was going to pray and pressed them to his mouth.

“We declare ourselves enemy of the West and God help us if they ever decide to call in our debts.”

 _Western Court, Edmonton_

“Do you think we made a bad choice with him?” Jose was the one to ask his Alpha and the second consort as they stood in the kitchen, the letter tossed carelessly onto the counter as they decided where to go from there.

Sheldon rubbed circles into his temples before he looked up at the first consort.

“This wouldn’t have mattered if you weren’t going into the territory and if Kane had a lick of common sense to do as he was told.” Sheldon growled out irritably. His second Consort, Ryan, moved closer and rubbed small circles into his back to soothe his Alpha.  It hadn’t been an easy situation once the season began. Jose was moving deep into Midwest land and Sheldon himself hadn’t a clue as to whether petition the Eastern packs for entry, since his terms were still not finalized with the Caps and thus left him in limbo and tetchy as hell.

He was a ruler used to taking definitive action and the grey areas angered him, since those areas always had the potential to cause fires he would have no choice but to put out. And usually, those fires had long-term repercussions that tended to change dynamics too quickly for his liking.

“Well...it’s done.” Ryan commented softly. “We have to figure out how to minimize the damage now. After all, we _did_ name Toews the heir apparent. We can’t simply send an answer. Especially not when Jose’s petition is pending.”

Sheldon made a low noise in his throat in agreement before he stopped rubbing his temples and crossed his arms across his chest.  
“There’s always the option of formally making Sharp and Jonathan the heirs and make the official announcement when we go to meet with the Midwestern Alpha.” Ryan pointed out, his hand still on Sheldon’s back.

“ Sharp is neutral and even though his mate has ties, the entire Sharp family wants to stay that way. They fled out of Manitoba during the last Western push for succession because they were asked to pick sides. They’re not pleased that Sharp answered our call, nor are they pleased that he’s mated with Jonathan,” Sheldon explained matter of factly to his consorts. Jose blinked and Ryan frowned. Well, that explained a hell of a lot about Sharpie’s character then. And it also put him in a more favourable light for the ascendancy. Sheldon smiled thinly as he watched their thoughts play across their faces before he continued. 

 “He’ll only take the nomination if there’s no choice in the matter. I don’t think Toews was a mistake, but we can’t interfere in the final choice that he makes when it comes to what Kesler and his court demand as payment for the grudge debt. And I have a feeling that if he makes the obvious choice with Kane, we _will_ have the war that we are trying to so desperately avoid.”

Sheldon concluded, making Jose and Ryan blanch at the prospect of losing more of their kind.

“Then it makes sense to put Sharpie and Jonathan in as soon as possible.” Ryan muttered slowly, his eyes darting back and forth as he weighed the various consequences and repercussions.

“And make an enemy when we publicly humiliate Toews to the entire world of _loups, susi, volks_ and _vargs._ ” Jose interjected softly. Sheldon nodded grimly while Ryan’s face paled. Although Toews was a decent enough _loup_ , he was ambitious to the core and if that ambition was thwarted, he would more than likely be an adversary to be reckoned with once he decided to take his grudges out in the public arena.

“Would he listen if we were to speak with him?” Ryan asked tersely. Jose and Sheldon looked at each other and shook their heads.

“Worth a shot, but he’s extremely proud and young and defensive about losing what he thinks is rightfully his over his love’s stupidity. We can try, but it we have to remember that it may not work at all.” Sheldon replied.

Ryan’s eyes widened and Jose frowned at the comment.

“Why didn’t he just petition for him then, if he’s really in love with Kaner?”

Sheldon snorted. “Kane’s okay to have as a friend. But do you really want to be tied to him for the rest of your lifespan?”

Jose and Ryan opened their mouths to make a protest, looked at each other and closed their mouths without uttering a sound. Although Jose hadn’t had too many encounters with Kane, Ryan had some encounters with Kane during the Olympics. And it had taken Ryan a couple of weeks to completely get rid of the slight twitch in his left eye because of them.

“He...I...Uhm...yeah. I got nothing.” Ryan finally muttered. Silence between them as they thought about the Kane and Toews situation and how their hands were more or less tied by protocol.

“I know he doesn’t deserve what’s going to come. Or what’s happening right now. But we have to uphold the laws and at this point, it’s up to Toews. We’re witnesses and advisors, that’s it.”

Sheldon said after awhile.

“And if he makes the wrong choice?” Jose whispered.

Sheldon’s mouth tightened. “We eliminate the threat.”

~*~*~*~*~

 _Western Enclave_  

 “That’s not an acceptable proposition and you know it, Kesler!” Jonathan Toews snarled at Ryan Kesler, who was standing across the long table in the non-descript hotel conference room in St. Paul’s.

Kesler smirked at having gotten a rise out of the usually unflappable captain. He had to admit that although petty, it went a long way to ease the impotent humiliation he had always felt at being defeated by the Chicago upstarts in the play-offs. He placed his hands on the table and leaned forward, his eyes gold and focused on Toews, whose eyes were almost yellow in anger at the choice he had been given.

“The Western Triumvirate spoke favourably in support of it, Toews. The European Collective and the Eastern Pack agreed. So that would make it an acceptable proposition. Think it over. You have six hours until an answer is absolutely needed.” Kesler explained slowly and deliberately.

Jonathan’s jaw worked as he digested the facts that had just been presented to him by Kesler. He really was fucked.

“Is it really that bad, Tazer? The idea of keeping him with you repulses you so much that you would rather see him dead?” Kesler asked quietly, all traces of antagonism gone, since he really wanted to know if Toews was that much of a cold bastard to do that to someone he had shared such a long and intimate stretch of time with.

Toews’s eyes darkened slowly to the point where they were almost their normal dark brown before he answered the question Kesler was asking him.

“I can’t ask Bur to do this.” He whispered. “I can’t ask someone to pay a debt that’s not theirs.”

Kesler’s mouth twitched in sympathy. “Even when it’s his choice to make that payment?”

Toews smiled a mirthless smile that resembled a death’s head grin that made Kesler wince slightly when it was turned onto him at full force.

“Bur’s a good guy, but not the sharpest tool in the shed. He thinks he knows what he’s getting into. This isn’t a blessing. It’s a burden. Not a curse. And once he realizes everything that goes with it...he won’t be able to change any of it. And I refuse to have that guilt on my conscience.”

Kesler snorted. “Yet you’re quite comfortable with having the blood of your best friend on your hands? Exactly in which direction do you calibrate your moral compass in the morning Toews? Because that’s some fucked up reasoning right there. He’s your best friend! He’s like...your fucking _wife_ , for fuck’s-”

“I _know_ what he is to me, Kesler! I _have known it since the first time I saw him!_ No one needs to tell me that! _I know!”_ Toews roared, interrupting Kesler and shutting him up with his knowledge and vociferousness.

“Then why? Why are you doing this?” Kesler shouted back once he got his composure back.

Toews’ face contorted and Kesler saw that it took him visible effort to keep himself from shifting into his _loup_ form. As it was, his eyes were an incandescent yellow-white that looked like molten metal in his too pale, too narrow face.

But instead of replying, he simply flipped the table over, narrowly missing Kesler and stalked out. Kesler took a couple of deep breaths and shook his head. That kid needed to use the six hours wisely, or else he wasn’t ever going to forgive himself.

~*~*~*~

 _“I want to fall asleep to the sound of your breathing_

 _You are a radio, you are an open door_

 _I am a faulty set of blue Christmas lights, blinking on and off again.” The Weakerthans_

Patrick shivered and forced himself to move. Although it brought tears to his eyes and he let out a little whine as he shifted his bruised and abused body around, it was worth it when he was wrapped up properly in the thick blankets that Sharpie had brought him hours or days ago...he didn’t know. All he remembered was the fuzzy image of Sharpie unfolding the blankets over him, smoothing his sweat and blood caked hair away from his swollen face before being hustled out.

He coughed and winced at the rawness of his throat. On top of the beatings, he was also positive that he was on his way to being really sick. It made him want to snicker at the situation, since he probably _wasn’t_ going to be alive long enough to suffer through that experience. He would have too, but it was all too painful and he was still catching his breath at how much just even _breathing_ hurt.

They hadn’t been compassionate towards him, the young wolf and his companions. They let him have a few hours of breathing time, but they invariably came back and started up the abuse over again. Patrick forced himself to not think about the last time that they had been there, but his left hand with the mangled fingers wouldn’t let him. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to block the memories of that particular experience away, but it still came.

 _Patrick had been mute with shock and horror once the young loup had stepped back, breathing heavily as he did so. He had just hit Patrick so hard that everyone in the cell had winced when the loud cracking of bone echoed and re-echoed in the room. He couldn’t blink his right eye and he felt like the eye itself was going to ooze out of a socket that was cracked and no longer whole. He could feel the pain make its way across his entire head: jarring, sickening and thick. It was also the first time he had ever thought to use the adjective “disgusting” for pain. He was sure he was going to throw up if it kept its inexorable march across his entire face._

 _He gasped and tried to gulp in as much air as he possibly could to make his stomach change its mind about emptying its contents on the floor The wolves that held his arms behind his back loosened their hold enough to let him breathe. Patrick was sure one of them muttered something that sounded like “Jesus, Brayden...” but he didn’t give a damn, since he was doing his best to not vomit all over the place. He was sure that he would have to endure the stench of lying in the vicinity of his own vomit and that was something he was NOT going to lower himself to do. Ever. He hadn’t sunk down that far._

 _He succeeded, but his entire face felt swollen and if he moved suddenly, it felt like it was going to slide off his head. He realized too, that he didn’t have any vision in his eye. It was just black. He realized belatedly that he wasn’t as freaked out as he should have been about the situation. He had just accepted it and wondered if it was because he wouldn’t have to deal with the repercussions as he otherwise would have if he was sure he was going to make it out of that cell alive._

 _Dimly, he wondered if he still believed whether Tazer would save him and somehow make everything okay. He didn’t have an answer because the wolf came back and slapped him across the face, clouding his mind with dark red streaks of agonizing pain and making him go blank for about five minutes or so. He didn’t know._

 _All he knew was that it was enough time for the wolves to grab his left arm and position it flat on the ground. There were more of them grabbing at him to make sure that he stayed still. He was passive until he saw the one that was beating him heft a large brick that he seemingly pulled out of thin air. When it all became painfully obvious, Patrick struggled. Despite knowing that his pitiful struggles weren’t going to make a difference in the outcome, he still struggled._

 _Patrick didn’t plead or beg. He didn’t make that much noise when he saw the wolf, whom he guessed was called “Brayden” give him a sneering smile as he gripped the brick tightly before bringing it down without any warning._

 _Patrick was proud to say that he only started screaming when Brayden had broken three of his fingers. After that...it hadn’t mattered. His voice had gone. And so had his awareness._

 _The next thing he knew, he had been lying on his side with someone his brain groggily had identified as Sharpie covering him up, a barely there prick in his arm, blood being wiped off his face and whispers that sounded like “We’ll make it right. Don’t...” before he was gone. And Patrick was left alone to float in a grey murk that he fuzzily realized was medicinally created. He slept._

The next time he had woken up, his shirt was gone and his back was stinging like a motherfucker. The blankets felt like sandpaper on his skin and he was thankful that he had been unconscious when that had happened. His mouth tasted like bloody cotton and he was actually surprised that he still had his teeth left. At least he was going to make a pretty corpse.

He grinned. He didn’t have anything left to actually laugh at except his own gallows humour. He was starting to just wish he could fade out and not wake up again. At least they were drugging him, prolonging everything that they were doing to him. That was a small mercy.

Patrick sighed softly and was about to force himself into his sanctuary of the grey purgatory when the clanking of the cell doors opening made him tremble slightly in anticipation at what torture was going to come next. He listened, his entire body aching with the effort of keeping still as two sets of footsteps came close to him. He strained his ears as much as he was able in an effort to figure out what they could possibly want from him (which was bloody hard, since they had, in the middle of one the earlier beatings, popped his eardrum with a particularly hard hit. It made it all easier to take when everything was muffled) but even that particular trick didn’t help him. He just hoped he would be able to pass out before it got too painful to take and he embarrassed himself by screaming like a little girl.

“Oh shit. Oh no. Hell no! No!” He heard a familiar voice faintly cry out in disbelief and disgust. He turned his head to see who the speaker was, but the movement jarred his broken eye socket and made purple and black streaks go across his fuzzy vision before he passed out. 

~*~*~*~*~

Jonathan paced the large office of the Western Enclave, his nervousness translating itself into restless energy that he desperately needed to burn off. Even though he had asked if he could run in the woods, he had been told by all of the Alphas he needed to stay in the enclave until he had reached a decision. He had snarled and given in with unnatural ill grace (he tried to not feel guilty about hurling three metal chairs against the boardroom walls and reducing them to so much scrap metal after Souray had told him that, but it was still hard) and had spent most of the six hours pacing, punching holes in the wall and trying to futilely convince himself that a human Burr was more preferable in the long run than a _loup_ Patrick Kane who would be by his side for the next couple of hundred years or so.

He growled in irritation and frustration as he paused and raked his fingers through his hair again, making it stand up almost completely straight. He wasn’t any closer to justifying making a decision he _knew_ was wrong. Even though his head was telling him it was the best way to maintain his grip on a position that had been promised to him ever since he was seven...he knew that destroying an innocent was the wrong way to achieve it. Not to mention being uncomfortably aware that if he got to the Alpha position, his tenure would begin tainted with blood. He was sure that he would eventually do other things to make his pack forget. Or bludgeon the memory from them by sheer force.

He sighed, because he knew that wasn’t the way to be a leader. He had learned that much as his tenure of the Blackhawks captain. But he wasn’t ready to cross that line and he couldn’t really explain nor comprehend why he was so stubborn and reluctant to do so either.

(He knew it was going to hurt, not seeing that devil may care smile anymore. He knew he was being unfair and he was scared that it would break him. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to break down. Not yet. He just couldn’t open his mouth and finally give in.)

He stopped and leaned against the desk and looked down at the paperwork and pen lying beside it. He had already read the entire thing and all the clauses that it mentioned. He had also studied all of the signatures in rows above his own: Kesler, Brayden, Lundqvist, Ovechkin, Souray, Theodore, Miller, Gagner, Sharp, Roy and Burish. The only one not there was his own so that the damned mess could be ended and everyone could move on with their lives.

He stared at the blank line with the x before it and even though his fingers touched the barrel of the pen, he still couldn’t bring himself to sign it.

He stared at the paper long enough for everything to start blurring into a mass of incomprehensible text when the door was opened to reveal a calmly furious Sam Gagner and Burr. Jonathan only had time to blink at them before Gagner snarled and leapt at him, landing a left hook that had him reeling and spitting out blood when his head snapped back with the force of the blow.

“What the fuck, Gagner?” he managed to splutter out as he wiped his mouth with his sleeve, his anger rising, but still under the usual tight hold he had schooled himself to maintain at all times.

Gagner breathed through his nostrils, a harsh and angry sound before he spoke.

“What the fuck are you waiting for, you selfish motherfucker? For them to tear him apart before you finally sign that fucking paper?”  He shouted at Jonathan, his last words almost lost in the snarl that he couldn’t quite suppress in his rage over the situation. Even though Burish was only human, he did put his hand around Gagner’s upper arm to calm him down somewhat and only gave Jonathan an opaque look that hurt Jonathan more deeply than he cared to admit.

“What the fuck are you on, Gagner? He’s under detention until the judgement is passed. He’s fine.” Jonathan replied, still refusing to either be intimated by the small _loup_ in front of him.

Gagner smiled bitterly and made to lunge at him again, but deferred to Burish holding him and Jonathan inwardly thanked whoever was out there that Gagner had chosen to defer to Burish, because as much as he hated to admit it, he was getting intimidated by the small ball of fury in front of him. Although Gagner had just an inch and a few pounds on Kane, he somehow seemed to be more threatening than Patrick could ever have been.

Burish and Gagner chose that moment to exchange look that was part exasperation and part pity as they communicated something that basically went over Jonathan’s head. Although he was great at reading his team-mates’ signals and his opponents’ signals, he was always crap at reading people and that was a constant source of amusement to all of his teammates and to Patrick as well. Normally, he wouldn’t have given a damn, but the fact that Gagner had more or less backed off and was letting his eyes go back to their normal colour was strengthening the concern he knew he should have just torn out of himself at the roots before it had any chance to take hold and grow in him.

“Why didn’t they tell him? They should have told him when I agreed to the offer.” Burish whispered, his good-natured face drawn and dead white as the implications sunk in. Gagner’s eyes widened until they were almost twice their size and silver was showing at the rims of his soft brown eyes as he looked at Jonathan, who was starting to dread what he was going to hear next.

“Jonathan...the longer you hold out...the more that they will take the grudge debt out on Patrick.” Gagner explained slowly, as if he was also trying to make himself believe what he was saying. “Brayden’s a son of a bitch at the best of times. Patrick got his mate killed. He’s going to take it all out on him until you finally give the word to let him kill Patrick or let Burish be part of the pack.”

Jonathan’s face went sheet white at what Gagner was telling him. “But...Kesler...he...”

Gagner snorted humourlessly. “Do you seriously think he was going to give you full details of what a blood-debt entails, Jonathan? This is _his_ pack and you’ll be utterly naive to think that he’d play fair when it comes to one of his own being killed. Our packs are small enough as it is. And the perpetrator of such a crime isn’t going to be let go so lightly. We don’t follow the Geneva conventions.”

Jonathan’s head spun with all that he was being told and he was glad that he was still leaning against the desk.

“You stupid fuck...didn’t you think to ask? To see him?” Burish asked him, but there was no heat behind the words. He was just sad and tired and...Disappointed and Jonathan had to fight to not let the tears prickling his eyes slip down his face.  He didn’t even have the luxury to blame anyone or anything but his own stupid pride and ambition and mistrust. If only he had listened to Sharpie when he had brought up the possibility of _maybe_ telling Kaner about them. If only he had watched and learned from the Alpha that he had so much gratitude and admiration for and followed his example. If only he hadn’t panicked from the beginning and run away from the feelings that Patrick had stirred in him from their first meeting and put a petition forward to change and mate him...

“I’m a fucking idiot. A fucking idiot.” Jonathan hissed and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes to stop from crying. He was Jonathan Toews and he didn’t fucking cry. He didn’t cry alone or in public and certainly not in front of two people that knew he was a pretty shitty being at the moment.

“I just thought that Kesler would be like _us_. Like The European Collective. I didn’t think to assume the worst when they told me about the grudge debt. “He whispered as he pulled his hands away from his eyes and wiped them roughly.

Gagner slapped him hard across the back of the head. “You fucking ambitious moron! Of course they’re not like us! They never signed the fucking accords! And they’re going to torture Patrick within an inch of his life before they either kill him or hand him over!”

Jonathan was too disenheartened to even snap back at Gagner. He simply picked up the document and flipped the sheets over to read the options he had as per the accord.

“I’ll fucking do it, all right! That’s why I’m here! Quit fucking stalling, sign the damned papers and take Patrick with you!” Burish yelled at him, batting the accord away from Jonathan’s numb hands so that it fluttered carelessly onto the desk.

“I don’t-” Jonathan tried to talk, but Burish glared him into silence.

“Don’t even fucking try with me, Jonathan. It barely works on the ice and it’s sure as hell not going to work right now. I know my life is gone as I know it. But I’m not going to let Patrick die a pointless death. I’ll even fucking marry the idiot if I have to.” Burish cut him off forcefully, his eyes bright with anger and unshed tears. “If you even give a flying rat’s ass about him...step aside and let me do this. Or at least be a fucking adult and do it yourself and prove that you really have a heart. Or failing at that...prove that you do deserve that fucking C on your sweater and do the right thing for a team-mate rather than feel sorry for yourself that life didn’t turn out just the way you wanted it to.”

Jonathan’s eyes bled into gold at Burish’s words, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he finally picked up the pen and placed his signature on the accord with such hurried and angry strokes that he nearly put the pen through the parchment.

~*~*~*~*~

Jose’s cell phone vibrated and he smiled an apologetic smile to both of his mates, Kesler and the assorted envoys before exiting to the hallway. He thanked his lucky stars that he had thought to put his mobile on vibrate before they had all entered the formal sitting room where all announcements and rules were carried out. They were all tense as they had gathered in wait for the neutral envoy to come and give them the accord that would signal whether the badly abused Patrick Kane would be put out of his misery or be saved at the 11th hour. 

He winced when he remembered the badly beaten boy when Sharpie and Roy had asked and gotten permission from a unanimous council to move him and get him some medical help. Even in his worst times, he hadn’t looked as pitiful as Patrick Kane had. He had almost been beaten beyond recognition and Jonathan Roy had actually thrown up when he had described what they had done to Patrick’s left hand.

Sheldon had shaken his head and Ryan’s mouth had gotten bloodless with how tightly he had pressed his lips and Jose was sure that once they went to their private quarters, there would be dried half-moons of blood on Ryan’s palms. Even Kesler had looked disturbed and had cast undecipherable glances at Brayden when the wolf wasn’t looking. It hadn’t been a good scene all along and Jose hoped that Kesler would be smart enough to accept the accords and implement the laws that the other packs swore by.

Frowning, he fished his mobile out of his pocket and saw the little envelope icon flashing to indicate a text. He flipped his mobile open and went directly to his inbox.

 _“He agreed. Bringing the accord now.”_

Jose smiled to himself and deleted the message before shutting his phone, pocketing it and returning to the room. He was as unobtrusive as he could be and took his place amongst his Alpha and fellow consort. He didn’t give anything away, nor did his Alpha and fellow consort when the doors opened to reveal Gagner and Burish, both of them utterly neutral as they entered the hall.

Gagner went up to Kesler and Burish went to stand next to Brayden, who eyed him with undisguised admiration as Burish did so. Kesler opened the parchment and skimmed it rapidly before giving a tight nod and dragging both Brayden and Burish out.

  ~*~*~*~*~pilogue

“It’s silent in the early morning the only sound is my breathing  
as I lay awake not knowing where it will be I’m going.  
But I know, time moves slow at 12:59, I sing lullaby.” Bedouin Soundclash

Patrick woke up when he heard clanking of metal over his head. He blinked an eye open and had to immediately close it again when he was nearly blinded by stark, oddly flat, brightness.

He briefly wondered if he was dead, but dismissed the idea when he felt a coldness seeping into the back of his right hand and the coolness of oxygen being pumped into his nose. This was a novel experience because for the most part, his body felt like it had been wrapped in cotton wool.

Even his left hand and arm, which had alternated between sickening pain and debilitating throbbing was included in this hazy numbness.  
Even his mind felt quite warm and fuzzy and he was thankful he was getting the good quality drugs. He opened his eye slightly and immediately noticed two things: a window with vertical blinds letting sunshine pour into the room and Jonathan dead to the world in a visitor’s chair next to his bed.

He jerked his right arm and cried out at what felt like a lance of ice and fire shooting down into his arm. He knew, without a shadow of a doubt that Jonathan had been there for the whole night. The suit he was wearing was crumpled to shit and his hair was greasy and standing up on end. Despite the deep sleep he was having, Patrick could see that it wasn’t even near enough. Jonathan’s face was drawn and even in sleep, his mouth was drawn in a tight, worried line. The skin under his eyes was dark and the angles of his face looked starker and sharper.  
This, Patrick took in before Jonathan jerked awake and moved to be by his side, but a female voice Patrick deduced belonged to a nurse firmly instructed Jonathan to sit while she dealt with the problem.

Jonathan looked sulky, but complied at the stiffly given order. He did worriedly flick his eyes over Patrick, and that helped ease the discomfort creeping into his momentary gauzy existence. He would have also enjoyed the sight of Captain Serious being put in his place more if his right arm wasn’t alternating between burning and freezing agony. He tried to not be a baby about the situation, since he had gone through worse things recently, but his mind and body had forgotten that. To his embarrassment he let out a couple of whines and the nurse, whom he could see was built in the mould of his sisters, did her best to fix the problem.

This took longer than he had anticipated, since the nurse had to leave and come back with another one of her colleagues to re-insert what he finally realized was an I.V. line and then strap his right arm to a board with bandages and gauze. Although he was happy that the pain had stopped, he now realized that both of his arms were useless and that Jonathan was staring at him with the universal “ _We have to have a talk_ ” expression that usually signalled a very awkward and very painful length of time until either party could escape.

It wasn’t going to be him that was for sure, since he was the one lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to oxygen and lines (he could see multiple bags hanging from a stand and more plastic tubing and he knew that even though he couldn’t see them, they were attached _somewhere_ ) and pretty much helpless.

When that realization hit him, he couldn’t help but whimper again. Especially since the memories of the-what, Weeks? Days? Hours? - He had been held in that cold cell and abused and...He closed his eye and a tear slipped down his cheek. He opened up his eye again and looked at Jonathan, who had finally moved closer to the bed and was now wiping Patrick’s tears away with his thumb.

“Pat-” Whatever it was that he was going to say was lost when Patrick cut him off as sharply as he was able, considering his pathetic state.

“Jon...How long was I in that shit-hole and fucked am I?” he asked softly. He didn’t have the energy to raise his voice any higher, since he had a sneaking suspicion that he would need what little strength he had left to take in whatever Jon was going to tell him.

Jonathan’s expression cracked just a bit as he stroked Patrick’s now dry cheek gently, as if he were touching delicate porcelain. He frowned and Patrick could see the internal conflict within Jonathan, but he wasn’t inclined to let it go. He was tired of being tortured and wondering if the next time he closed his eyes; he would be alive to open them again.

If Jonathan was having a bit of a dilemma, it was a small sufferance for what Patrick himself went through. Make that a very small sufferance. He wasn’t normally inclined to be petty with Jonathan, but...he bit his lip when the hideous memory of his eye socket and cheekbone being broken overwhelmed him and he had to take a deep breath to push back the nausea that came with the image.

“Are...Are you sure you want to hear that now? You just woke up after being unconscious for a week...” Jonathan trailed off as he cupped the only part of Patrick’s face that wasn’t covered with gauze or medical tape. Patrick grimaced at the question. He had been unconscious for an entire week?

“Just tell me. You owe me that much, Tazer.” Patrick whispered tiredly. Jonathan nodded and Patrick felt slightly guilty when Jonathan couldn’t quite hide the hurt that flashed briefly in his eyes before he took a deep breath and began to speak.

“It wasn’t that long that you were in the Western Enclave. Two nights, but Brayden was determined to take his grudge debt out to the fullest on you.”

Jonathan paused when he saw Patrick’s eye widen at the information.

“Kaner...we don’t have to-”

“Yes we do, Tazer. We have to. I have to know if this is just a break before it starts up again and they do-” he choked as the fear overwhelmed him. He stopped speaking and started taking in deep breaths and Jonathan switched tactics and started murmuring something in really low tones while gently smoothing back his hair until Patrick didn’t feel he was going to pass out from his memories and fears.

“They won’t ever touch you again. You’re safe now. Kesler and his pack are gone and I will keep anyone from hurting you ever again. I promise, Kaner. No one will ever do this again.” Jonathan whispered as he kept on smoothing Patrick’s tangled blonde curls back.

Patrick exhaled loudly and nodded slightly. Although he was touched at hearing Jonathan say those words, part of him wondered why it had taken such horrific circumstances for Jonathan to say them.

“Why? What would stop them?” He asked, feeling completely defeated and exhausted by the situation and the conversation.

Jonathan’s eyes glimmered and wavered and that made Patrick wonder if it was the drugs he was on, because he could have sworn that Jonathan’s eyes had turned gold just for a split second before going back to their usual fathomless brown. But when he looked again, Jonathan was still looking at him intently before he answered the question.

“I claimed you as my own. No one will hurt you like that. The debt has been paid and Kesler’s got a replacement for the one that you got killed. You’re safe now. That’s all you need to know right now.” Patrick winced at the answer, but didn’t make any replies.

Jonathan was right. He had gotten that wolf-man thing killed and wished that he hadn’t been so stupid and stayed at the hotel that night. It would have just been one night, after all. And because of that insecurity and that mistrust...here he was. Lying in a hospital bed with his best friend stroking his hair like he was a little kid and probably broken beyond recognition both physically and emotionally as well. He wanted to cry, but he only cleared his throat instead before he asked the question that he really didn’t want to get an answer to.

“How bad did they fuck me up, Tazer?” he asked, his voice shaking and cracking all over the place as he forced the words out. Tazer’s hand on his head stilled and Patrick expected for there to be another long, awkward silence until the answer was finally awkwardly revealed, like it had been before.

“It’s pretty bad, Kaner. Really bad.” Patrick nodded and bit his lip to keep from bawling like a little kid.

“My hand?” he whimpered. Jonathan nodded curtly.

“Your entire left arm is in pieces. The right side of your face is too.” Tazer resumed the hair stroking before he continued.

“They don’t know if you’re going to lose sight in that eye yet.” Patrick started to cry. Full-blown sobs tore from his throat and his body jerked and shook as he understood what he had lost.

Not only had he lost his sight and the use of his hand...he had also lost his career. All he had ever worked for was gone all because of a stupid impulse and there was no way of getting it back or fixing it.

It was only then that Jonathan carefully picked Patrick up and held him as carefully as he would Tiffany glass and let him cry until he had completely exhausted himself. He rubbed circles on Patrick’s frail back, careful to not aggravate the healing stripes on the skin until Patrick’s sobs had subsided to slight tremors until he pulled away and looked into Patrick’s reddened and swollen eye.

“Kaner...I know this is hard right now and you don’t have to answer right away...but do you trust me?”

Patrick blinked, his eyelashes moving slowly as they were wet and heavy with his tears. He pondered the question for what felt to Jonathan and almost impossible time before Patrick nodded, wincing at the movement as it jarred the broken bones in his face.

“Why?” Patrick asked in a clogged voice.

In response, Jonathan clamped his hand over Patrick’s mouth before tilting his neck and biting down as hard as he possibly could.

End.

**Author's Note:**

> Not true, never happened. Prose is mine, mistakes, if they show up despite proof-reading are mine and I apologize in advance. Songs quoted are by the following bands-Bedouin Soundclash, The Weakerthans, My Chemical Romance, Florence and the Machine.


End file.
